


Adventures In Catsitting

by clockworkrobots



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:25:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a surprising and unfortunate encounter with a witch, Stiles gets turned into a cat. </p>
<p>It’s Scott fault, Derek is unamused, Stiles wreaks his own style of havok, and not much is really new at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures In Catsitting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jerkoffanangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerkoffanangel/gifts).



> Written for my ever lovely and perfect walrus wife [Jay](http://sourwolf.tumblr.com/), for her birthday.

  
It was pretty much all Scott's fault, as these things usually go.  
  
Or, maybe it was everyone else's fault for letting Scott be in charge of anything, but it was easy to blame Scott, so they blamed Scott.   
  
Or, rather, everyone _but_ Stiles did, because at the moment, Stiles couldn't actually _talk_ , due to possessing four paws, a tail, and the finest set of whiskers you ever did see. However, while divested of the capacity for human speech, he could, indeed, meow his contempt, as he had just been turned into a cat.  
  
It happened something like this:  
  
To be fair no one actually saw it coming, but apparently witches were an actual _thing_ . Which, in hindsight they probably should have known, because you know, _werewolves_ were apparently a thing. Warlocks and wizards too, then, Stiles supposed--the four W’s of the supernatural, and actually, with their luck, there were probably more than four (Stiles distantly recalls watching a tv show about hunting monsters or some shit with creatures called “wendigos”--whatever the fuck those were, he hopes they aren’t real _too_ ).  
  
Not only were witches a thing, _vindictive_ witches at that. Not that revenge was the exclusive province of magically endowed women, but that, when Scott convinced Stiles to sneak into a basement to steal “ancient texts” that might be “useful”, and they turned out to be just regular fucking _cookbooks_ of all things, well, as normal citizens of pretty much anywhere, the homeowner, who was found to possess a proclivity for magic, didn’t really take kindly to strange teenagers breaking and entering.   
  
Which is how Stiles ended up on the unfortunate receiving end of the witch’s retribution. How, exactly, being a cat was calculated as being the sweetest of revenges was a bit lost on Stiles, but Lydia, ever the quick wit, mused it must be some sort of ironic metaphor for being a burglar. Stiles didn‘t really care about the _why_ though, more about the _why me_ , and the _how the fuck do I get back._  
  
Everyone else was rather at a loss as much as Stiles, except of course Allison , who only rolled her eyes, pulled about 50 minutes of research in her family’s library, and reported back it was probably only a temporary spell that would wear off eventually.  
  
Great. So he was _stuck_.  
  
Stiles quickly discovered, however, that there were indeed some not so inconvenient things about being the world’s newest inductee into cathood.   
  
For instance: it gave him some rather good excuses to do some things rather not as acceptable--or frankly possible--in his former human state, including, although not limited to, scaling trees, spying from atop roofs (although certainly he had entertained some of that clandestine behaviour as a human--pack shit, you know), and hissing at Derek.  
  
That last item, of course, was undergone, with some caution, because at all times there existed still the anxiety that even as a pet-sized bundle of delight, Derek might not hesitate to eat him.   
  
You ran some risks as a cat.   
  
Ultimately, Stiles thought, the reward of Derek’s startled glare was worth the chance of having his ears ripped off, just for that sweet moment when the great alpha wolf was bested in shock by a kitten.  
  
Suffice to say it was kind of awesome.  
  
Of course, it still took some getting used to, and as no one could be sure when exactly the curse would wear off--although Stiles was repeatedly and heartily assured, by no one with such authority to tell him, that it _would_ , eventually--some adjustments to daily life did have to be made.  
  
First, Stiles’ dad was quickly assured of an imminent and urgent out of town field trip with a club that Stiles was suddenly a part of, and second, since Allison and Lydia both swore to cat allergies, and Jackson couldn’t be bothered about it either way (and Stiles wasn’t keen on staying with Jackson either), and certainly no on e trusted Scott to look after Stiles, Stiles the cat ended up at Derek’s.   
  
  
***  
  
  
All in all his little sojourn lasted exactly a week.  
  
If you asked Stiles, he would say it was kind of one of the best weeks of his life--no school, no homework, just sleeping and eating and getting petted--wonderful.  
  
If you asked Derek, he would say it was one of the worst.  
  
If you asked Derek, he would be lying.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Because truth be told (although it was a truth he would actually _tell_ no one), Derek Hale, career curmudgeon and surly sourwolf, was a cat person.  
  
It was a well kept secret, and perhaps it was inspired from never owning a cat himself in his youth (that wouldn’t have exactly been advisable for the cat’s safety in the Hale household, considering the obvious), but yes, indeed, Derek liked cats.   
  
Nay, he _loved_ cats.  
  
Which of course, presented a problem. Because Derek loved cats, but he was entirely predisposed _not_ to love Stiles, so when Stiles became a cat for a week, it produced a dizzying sense of cognitive dissonance. Surely Derek couldn’t even be brought to _like_ Stiles, could he?  
  
Right?  
  
Stiles, for his part, proceeded to furiously (furryously?) prove him wrong.  
  
It wasn't really _planned_ in any measure by Stiles, but, well, never let it be said he is slow on the uptake, so when he first noticed the twitch of Derek's fingers whenever Stiles got near, as if aching to touch, he clued in pretty quickly.   
  
Derek actually wanted to _pet_ him.  
  
That was... new, to say the least, that Derek might harbour something other than grudging acceptance of Stiles’ existence. It certainly warranted further exploration.  
  
Stiles started his investigation, codename: Prove Derek Gloriously Wrong In His Impression Of Me, on the Monday, the day after the pack's unfortunate encounter with the witch, and the day after Stiles received his own special souvenir from it.   
  
Stiles was exploring his way around the Hale house, through broken and burnt floorboards and forgotten spaces, when he happened upon a sleeping Derek sprawled out on his battered but resilient couch (god, did the guy ever need new furniture). It was really a novelty to find out that Derek, eternal night-stalker extraordinaire, actually _slept_.   
  
Feeling particularly daring and positive his soft fur and glistening eyes would deter any attack, Stiles decided an exploration of the rising and falling region of Derek’s sleeping chest would make a sufficient adventure for the day. Hopping up first onto the nearest armrest, and then crawling cautiously on top of the slumbering mass of Derek Hale, Stiles decided promptly that he liked the warmth radiating from this giant body very much, and that this was the perfect place and opportunity for a nap of his own.  
  
Which is how Derek came to awaken 50 minutes later with a ball of brown fur purring softly in his face. The terrifying part of it was, of course, that he wasn’t even annoyed by it at all. Huh.  
  
In fact, instead of growling and throwing Stiles off in a fury, as might have been expected, Derek huffed once, sighed twice (once audibly, and once a long drawn out internal type of sigh directed at the state of his life), and breathed in three times the unique cat scent that still managed to smell like Stiles regardless. He finally cracked open his eyes only after a few blissful and blank moments, and peered menacingly down his nose at the still sleeping lump of Stiles fur.   
  
And he found his body entirely unwilling to get up.   
  
It was strangely comfortable--although that was a fact only to be admitted on pain of death, and maybe not even then. Derek was a _fortress_. He was a wolf-hide, steely-eyed _fortress_. He was unbreakable.  
  
Well, until this afternoon.   
  
Because Derek “Impenetrable Fortress” Hale’s defenses were slowly crumbling, and all at the soft mew and rumble of a sleeping cat. So if he reached up to graze a hand along Stiles’ back, well, he’ll claim disorientation.  
  
As fate--the mischievous mistress that she was--would have it, it was at that moment that Stiles woke up.   
  
Derek’s hand immediately stilled. Stiles just blinked at him.  
  
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says to break the silence. Which was _weird_ for one thing-- _silence_ with _Stiles_.  
  
Another absurdly adorable blink.  
  
“Of _course_ in a pack of people who can transform into wolves _you_ would be the one to get transformed into a cat.”  
  
Cat eyes glistened like jewels. How was this his life.  
  
“You’re not even a very impressive cat.”  
  
Stiles just blinks again, as if to say, _you liar_ , and nudges Derek’s left hand with his head, soft fur ever tempting. Derek clenches his jaw in grudging agreement, and scratches him behind the ear.  
  
Fucking cats.  
  
Fucking _Stiles_.  
  
  
***  
  
It went on like that for much of the next 6 days: Stiles sneaking up and accosting Derek with his cute, Derek silently and grudgingly relenting. As if all it took was one witch’s spell to out him as a cat person.   
  
As if all it took was one witch’s spell to out him as a _Stiles_ person.  
  
But by the end of the week, when Stiles suddenly popped back into human size, aside for some small reminders of cat hair remaining on Derek’s sofa, everything quickly went back to normal, and it’s almost like Stiles never flirted with a smaller feline form.  
  
Almost.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“I bet you’re gonna say you liked me better as a cat.”   
  
“No.”  
  
“Yeah, I thought so--wait, ‘ _no_ ’?”  
  
“You’re... surprisingly tolerable as a human. For a human,” Derek adds after a moment, sitting back on his lone couch, in his less than presentable living room, avidly avoiding engaging Stiles by keeping his head down, concentrated on the newspaper unfolded in his lap (he had to keep abreast of local pack threats, you know?). Stiles sits across from him.  
  
“For a human,” Stiles repeats, as if to confirm if his ears doth deceive him. Derek only raises an eyebrow at him, face impassive, but eyes glinting as if to say _I would like this conversation to be over now_. “You don’t... hate me,” Stiles says slowly, realisation slowly dawning. His eyes go wide and a smile blooms across his face, “You don’t hate me! Aha! I fucking knew it!”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. “Congratulations.”  
  
“No, no, you can’t ruin this for me by feigned indifference. You don’t hate me!” and Stiles saddles up to him very slowly, grin turning mischievous. “And you know what that means--that means you might just come to _enjoy my company_. Incidentally harkening in the end of days, but certainly a milestone in human achievement. Or, um, werewolf achievement.”  
  
Derek huffs, finally conceding that he probably _isn’t_ going to make it to the end of this article without further interruption. He folds the paper up neatly and indulges Stiles: “So what are you going do with your newfound crown?”  
  
“Well, work on making the next level, naturally,” Stiles says, leaning back.  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“With time I might get you to more than like me.”   
  
And there it was, all his cards on the table.   
  
Because the thing was, Stiles had long come to terms with his feelings for Derek, he really had. He woke up one day from a particularly enjoyable dream thinking, “ _I would fucking do it with a werewolf,_ ” and was surprisingly not engulfed in terror by that thought (indeed, rather the opposite, if his erection was any indication). He had also long come to terms that his “crush” or whatever, his _longing_ , his fervent sexual attraction and kind of genuine affection for this strange guy, was almost definitely unrequited.  
  
But that was until Cat-gate. That was until now. Because suddenly, _miraculously_ , since Stiles had changed back, things were easy between them, in a way they had never really been before. Sure, they sniped at each other still, sure you could still probably cut yourself and bleed out on the sharpness of Derek’s glares, but in addition to their practiced banter and personality clashes, a familiarity and just easiness had seemed to settle over them, or over Derek at least. As much as Stiles had always relished their tension together, it never had really felt _comfortable_ before.  
  
Things changed, Stiles supposed. Derek might have changed, Stiles had hoped. But if the other man’s stony and persistent refusal to engage his present offer was any indication, apparently not.  
  
“Well, if you strike out once, there’s a second swing for everything, I guess,” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone, and gets up quickly to make a hasty retreat out the door.   
  
But before he can quite manage to cross the threshold bringing him to sweet shelter from his horrific display of unrequited emotion, Derek’s up too, launching himself into Stiles’ personal space. His hand grips Stiles’ arm, although surprisingly not forcefully, asking more than demanding for Stiles to stay.  
  
“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek rumbles, voice low and rough, and god , yeah, that was going straight to... not his head.  
  
Stiles turns, gulping only a _little_ nervously, and prompts: “Yeah?”  
  
Grip loosening on his arm, Derek actually has the audacity to _smirk_ , and Stiles is gearing up for as vicious a rejection as ever, take 2, before Derek suddenly brings a hand up to cup his cheek, rough calluses hot against Stiles’ face. “ _You already made it,_ ” he whispers with the utmost conviction, and then, quite without delay, nor warning, he kisses him.  
  
“Made what?” Stiles finally manages to get out, pulling back all too regretfully from Derek’s mouth. Curiosity always managed to get the best of him (frankly it was a miracle that it never killed him as a cat).  
  
“ _The next level_ , Stiles. You’re there.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
And if any part of Stiles’ brain was functional in this moment, he might decree his operation a success. But it’s not, so he doesn’t, and he moans into Derek’s lips instead.


End file.
